


is it bad i want you to see me bleed (is it bad i need you to tell me?)

by gay_thot_writing



Series: archives shuffle [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist Sasha James, M/M, Not!Martin, and what it means to love someone, i just think that. maybe., i will make that tag a thing MYSELF if i have to, mostly martin character study lol, people should help martin rebuild his idea of love., sad martin hours, uhhhhh what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25659544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gay_thot_writing/pseuds/gay_thot_writing
Summary: Love, for Martin, had always been a form of self-destruction.He learned how to love from television, from his mother, from a house too small yet made too large by its emptiness. He learned how to love with hands burned on food, on mugs of tea too hot for him too carry. He learned that love was one-sided, that he would give and give and give and that he should never, ever take.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Michael | The Distortion, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: archives shuffle [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772722
Comments: 13
Kudos: 88





	is it bad i want you to see me bleed (is it bad i need you to tell me?)

**Author's Note:**

> title from Holy Wreck by The Original Crooks and Nannies
> 
> you dont have to read the rest of the series to get it but its the same configuration of characters and roles so itll help

Love, for Martin, had always been a form of self-destruction.

He learned how to love from television, from his mother, from a house too small yet made too large by its emptiness. He learned how to love with hands burned on food, on mugs of tea too hot for him too carry. He learned that love was one-sided, that he would give and give and give and that he should never, ever take. 

The boyfriends he's had, in the past, have been bad for him. They've allowed him to love how he learned, allowed him to offer every bit of himself to them and offered little in return. His image of love was reinforced, was supported, was added to by his mother's cruel words and by every fictional body that looked like him, that loved like him, piling up in the corner. 

When he'd first started at the Magnus Institute, it was the same story. He made tea, he offered comfort and kind words, and he got quiet thanks in return. When he himself was in distress, he hid it, cried it out at home, where no one would know. 

Martin knew, by this time in his life, that it wasn't healthy. That love was supposed to reciprocal, that it shouldn't leave him drained and exhausted and empty at the end of the day. Yet it was the only way he'd ever known how to love, so he never expected it to change. He convinced himself he was fine with it.

But then, he was transferred down to the Archives. He met Sasha, and Tim, and Jon, and they were all so wonderful. He took care of them as best he could, made them tea and brought in pastries for birthdays after they realized that cake summoned Elias, and he never expected anything in return. He expected his birthday to pass by with no pomp, possibly a small "Oh, happy birthday!" from his coworkers. Instead, they surprised him by taking him out for ice cream. He was shocked into stunned silence, tears springing to his eyes when he saw the table decorated with balloons, the banner declaring "Happy Birthday, Martin!" in bright blue lettering- his favorite color, how had they known?

Martin was shocked, perpetually, by the kindness of his coworkers. His _friends_. They invited him to movie nights, to Friday night drinks, to Sasha-"forgot"-about-this-one-thing-so-now-we're-all-staying-late office sleepovers. When he tried to politely decline, thinking that they were only inviting him as a social nicety, Sasha made it Work Mandatory. Martin appreciated it greatly. He'd never had people invite him to hang out after work before and mean it, never had people make an effort to give back to him. 

But Martin wouldn't fool himself into getting used to it. He wouldn't let himself grow complacent, assume things would always be like this. Even as Tim threw a casual arm over his shoulders, Martin tried to keep himself distant, tried not to get used to it. Even as Sasha sent him kind smiles, her eyes crinkling gently, he convinced himself that she didn't truly care for him. And even as Jon's snarky comments evolved into playful banter, into sly smiles and witty repartee, Martin told himself it didn't mean anything. 

He felt himself falling for Jon, and it was with both relief and regretful resignation that he convinced himself there was no chance of him feeling the same. 

When he'd walked into Artifact Storage, looking for the fire suppression system or, at least, a place free from worms to wait out the attack, Martin had been careful. Sasha had told him to be careful, every time she sent him to check something out in Artifact Storage. She'd worked there, she knew well the caution required to get in and out unscathed. But the table's patterns had caught Martin's eye, had drawn him in. The tape in his hand had clattered to the floor as he traced the lines, knowing there was a way for them to reach the center, knowing if he just followed its path he would puzzle it out, knowing he just had to try a little harder. 

He'd heard the clatter, and it had drawn his attention from the table long enough for him to start backing up, long enough for him to call out a fearful "Who's there?" He'd seen the looming figure, wreathed in shadow and approaching, and he'd called a terrified "I see you!" with more confidence than he felt, and then he'd felt it on him, all wrongness and plastic and sharpness and then he hadn't felt anything at all.

It was odd, inside the table. He could feel the sides around him, if he reached out for them, if he concentrated on the fact that he knew they were there. Yet when he stopped focusing, stopped pulling what he thought was reality around him like a safety blanket, he could feel that the space he was in stretched on for ages. His eyes closed, he could feel string around him, like a great spiderweb sprawling out beyond him. He wasn't stuck to it, even as he felt along the vast threads of it. He followed the web, not knowing where it started or where it led. He felt the energy of it, humming under his fingers like synapses firing, responding to his presence. 

He thought that his being there might be feeding it. 

He didn't remember his name, not after the length of time he'd been following the strings alongside him, and he didn't remember how to open his eyes. But he remembered that love was feeding the other, giving them all of you, never expecting anything in return. He remembered the shape of love, the feeling of it. 

He remembered the shape of fear, too. He remembered that he did not love this web, that he did not want to feed it.

He reached for his memories, and one useful enough to him popped up. He snapped his eyes open, and above him, he saw the flat wood planks of the table. 

To either side, above him, and below him, there was wood. Confining, yet comforting, and it didn't hum with energy when he touched it, and he wrapped his reality around him like a safety blanket once more.

He spent what felt like years reaching for his name, for details about himself, but as he reached, he felt the wood slip under his fingers. He felt his eyes start to drift closed. He pushed his hand firmly into the side of the table, blinked quickly and held his eyes open as long as he could.

And he waited.

The thing that had put him in here came by, often enough that he still remembered it from the last time but rarely nevertheless. It would gloat, tell him about how it had stolen his name, stolen his memories, stolen the people he loved. How it was warping their memories of him more and more each day. How it remembered him, remembered everything about him, and how he could recall none of it.

But he didn't need to pay it any mind. He only needed to keep his hands on the sides of the table around him, keep reality around him, grounding. 

And then a hand, with fingers far too long, reached through the wood under his hand and wrapped around his arm. He was pulled out, out, and he didn't know if the wood was fracturing or if it was reality, but then, with a 'pop!', he landed against Michael. Michael! That was a person! That was his friend, just like Sasha! 

Sasha!! She was there, too! Smiling at him, hugging him, and he was Martin, of course! Of course. 

And his tormentor was gone, thrown into Michael's hallways, and hugging Michael felt like getting pins and needles wherever they were touching but he needed to show his gratitude and he couldn't think of any other way to show it in the moment.

And then Sasha explained, and they hugged some more, and the next morning he saw Tim and Jon and Sasha explained everything to them, too, and then Martin hugged them because Tim looked about as shell-shocked as Martin felt and Martin knew _he_ , for one, could certainly use a group hug right about now. It was only once Sasha and Jon had joined the hug that Martin felt the last pieces of himself fall into place.

Love had always been a form of self destruction to Martin. But when Tim threw an arm across his shoulders and Sasha smiled at him so her eyes crinkled at the corners and Jon joked with him instead of about him, Martin could almost see the damage repairing itself. His definition of love had cracks in the foundation, but his friends had come prepared with... well, with whatever you use to fix concrete. You get the point. 

Martin Blackwood, for once in his life, gave his all and got _everything_ in return.


End file.
